


Take These Broken Hands

by twitchtipthegnawer



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8887924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitchtipthegnawer/pseuds/twitchtipthegnawer
Summary: Credence follows Newt accross the ocean for reasons neither of them can really explain. For a long time, his life is like a long nightmare, not worse than it was before, but terrifying nonetheless. Credence is unique in the worst way possible, and Newt simply doesn’t know what to do.
Thankfully, they find a way to bumble through. With hands and heat and endless questions, Credence finds a way to heal. And as he learns to map Newt’s body against his own, the hidden, secret pieces of it, he learns to live again.





	

Credence sneaks into Newt’s life like a cold breeze in winter. He sends chills up his spine, he spends days insubstantial. But sometimes Newt catches a glimpse of him, knows what crack in the wall he’s using to waft his way in. Newt could easily keep him out.

He doesn’t, and not only because he feels an ache whenever he sees the boy’s crying face. After all, Credence isn’t a child. He doesn’t really need Newt, not like the creatures do. He just seems to _want_ him, in a way that Newt knows by now is rare and precious. Company without presumption, without expectation. Quiet as a winter draft.

The first time they talk together, Newt asks Credence questions. Some of them are easy. “Would you like food?”

A whispered, hoarse “Yes,” and Credence is seated at Newt’s table. Sometimes it’s difficult to find food for humans in his house, but Newt was prepared for this.

Some of the questions are quite a bit more difficult. “Credence, why won’t you eat?”

“It’s… hard,” Credence answers, and he sounds horribly hollow. Newt’s seen this before, animals that simply allowed themselves to waste away, and a fear that has nothing to do with Obscurus coils in Newt’s gut.

“Do you want to die?”

Surprise passes over Credence’s dark eyes, and Newt feels it as a balm on his worries. “No, I’ve never-- n-never wanted that.”

Eventually, Credence sips at the thin soup Newt had made. It’s a quiet meal. Newt likes it that way, and he hopes that Credence doesn’t mind it. There’s a sort of contentment in being able to simply study the boy sitting across from him, and see the ginger way he holds his hands.

As if they’re still injured. Newt barely restrains himself from simply grabbing at them to see; he needs to remember that Credence is often more than half a creature, understandably skittish.

“Are you healing?” He asks, managing something gentle and casual.

Frowning, Credence puts down his spoon. He looks at first puzzled, and then bone-deep tired. “No, I suppose not.”

Newt holds out his own hands, palms up. They’re covered in scars of their own, but it’s not the even striping left behind by a belt. There’s scratches and nicks and bites. He loves his scars. “May I help?”

He hesitates, of course he does, but Credence gives in the same way he started eating. His long fingers creep across the table, rest in Newt’s so lightly they barely feel as though they exist. Newt’s wrist twitches to bring his wand down from its holster, and then he’s murmuring a quiet word. A sigh passes between them as the welts melt from Credence’s pale skin.

“Feels like hot water,” he says. Newt isn’t sure if Credence even knows he’s speaking. “When your hands have been cold for too long.”

“Does it hurt?” Newt asks carefully, no judgement or worry in his tone. He thinks maybe Credence would be spooked by affection as easily as by violence.

Slowly, Credence shakes his head. For the first time they make eye contact, and it’s like-- well, Newt doesn’t like eye contact at the best of times. It’s intense, it sears into him. Newt allows his eyes to slide shut, and it feels like a weight off his chest.

“You’re welcome to sleep here, tonight,” he says.

And Credence’s fingers spasm, and he says “No.” Newt knew it was coming. He had to ask anyway.

Days pass, so many that if Newt didn’t know better, he’d worry. But Newt’s spent months in jungles and deserts and tundras. Newt knows intimately how long it can take to learn familiarity. To learn trust or calm or even a simple lack of fear.

The next time they talk, Credence opens with, “You don’t get many visitors.”

A wry smile crosses Newt’s face, and he holds up a blanket without needing to look at Credence. It’s raining outside, and Credence walked through the door instead of drifting insubstantially. Ergo, blanket.

“Why?” Credence asks, taking the blanket and draping it over his shoulders. “You’re kind. You don’t-- you don’t make people pretend.”

“But I also don’t pretend,” Newt answers. “Even when I ought to.”

“I don’t think you ever ought to,” Credence said. There was a surprising, bitter edge to it, one Newt didn’t know how to answer.

They sat beside one another on his couch, a fire crackling in Newt’s hearth. He almost asked Credence why he’d followed him over the sea, but Newt thought he might know. And more importantly, some questions weren’t just hard for him to ask. Some would be hard to answer.

This time the silence feels less companionable, more like balancing on a knife’s edge. Apparently, Credence is in a talking mood, because he’s the one who pushes the both of them over. “You care for creatures. Is that your job?”

“Yes, more or less. It’s one of the more, ah, eccentric job options there are.” Newt leans forward and takes a book off the coffee table, simply for something to do with his hands.

“Even for a wizard?” Newt can feel Credence’s gark gaze on him. He doesn’t look up from the annotated encyclopedia of easern european creatures.

“Even for a wizard.”

There are more words on the edge of Credence’s tongue, handing almost tangible in the air around them. Newt feels it as a cloying, moist cold, like fall fog. Instead of speaking, though, Credence reaches over and takes Newt’s hand in his clammy one.

Across his palm, Newt can feel a hot stripe of heat. He wants to ask why Credence is still getting injured, he wants to know with a burning curiosity if this is some effect of the Osbscurus or something more mundane. He wants to keep Credence beside him and heal each mark as it appears.

But Credence stands and walks away, leaving behind a damp blanket, and Newt lets him go.

In a week, Newt is powerfully reminded of a stray kneazle he’d once fed. Trailing in rainwater is one thing, but Credence stinks of mud and oil, of all things. He flinches when Newt walks up to him, and then something dark slinks over his face.

“Take your shoes off in the entrance,” Newt says. He keeps his voice barely over a whisper, and knows Credence will hear him anyway. “Then follow me. It’ll be alright.”

Newt leads him to the bathroom, then sits with his back to the closed door. He hears soggy fabric hitting the ground, and the shower turning on. “You can use the hot water,” he says, remembering what Credence said. “As much as you’d like.”

There’s no response, so Newt simply leans back and waits. He feels exhausted and doesn’t quite know why. Nothing _unusual_ happened today. It was just loud, and full, and he loves his creatures more than anything but… he’d thought it would be safe to spend all his energy on them. Usually, it is.

Having to keep in mind another human’s wellbeing is strange. Caring for someone enough to _want_ to keep them in mind is strange. It’s not like he hasn’t felt it before, but it’s not exactly common either.

To keep from thinking his way into falling asleep against the steadily warming bathroom door, Newt stands abruptly. He walks to his bedroom and changes into his pjamas with quick, jerky movements, and hopes that it’ll leave him more relaxed when Credence walks out again. He needs to set an example, show that there’s nothing for Credence to worry about here.

His muscles are still entirely too tense when Credence comes out, wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips. He keeps his eyes on the ground, and Newt tries to do the same. There’s a time and place for noticing the sharp jut of Credence’s collarbones, the inviting plane of smooth skin over his belly. It’s not here and now.

“You can borrow some clothes,” Newt says. “I’ll just get started on cleaning yours, yes?”

Despite the fact that he’s now warm and clean, Credence looks miserable as he takes the bundle of clothing from Newt’s hands and disappears back into the bathroom. Newt moves his wand through the motions of a cleaning charm mechanically.

“May I…” Newt nearly jumps at the sudden sound from behind him. Only his years of working with skittish animals stops him, but when his heart’s calmed he finds something must be wrong. Credence isn’t finishing his sentence.

“What is it?” He asks, turning around. Credence tears his gaze from Newt’s bare arms with what looks like considerable effort and blinks at him, dazed.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I… I just don’t know where else to go. May I spend the night?”

“Of course,” Newt answers without thinking. Then winces, because, “I only have one bed.”

Eyes widening, Credence shakes his head. It’s the sharpest motion Newt’s seen from him. “Oh, no Mr. Scamander, I’d be perfectly fine taking the couch--”

“Nonsense.” Newt knows he shouldn’t interrupt. Doesn’t care at the moment, because he’d rather get to his bed sooner rather than later, awkwardness be damned.

In the end, Newt gets his way simply by merit of the both of them being exhausted. They lay side by side, a solid foot of mattress between them. The space beneath the sheets heats quickly, and Newt begins to worry he’ll be too close to sweltering to sleep well.

Long after Newt was certain Credence had fallen asleep, the boy’s soft voice wavers into the room. “You have so many scars.”

Looking down at his arms where they rest on top of the blankets, Newt can see what Credence means. He wonders if that was what had caused him to lose his train of thought earlier. “I do,” Newt replies, for lack of anything better to say.

Credence asks, “Where did you get the one on your left shoulder?” And Newt can hear the struggle in it, the way the question pulls at Credence’s worries.

Luckily, it’s much easier for Newt to answer. “A thestral,” he says. “They’re lovely creatures, really. This one had an injured foal, and I’m afraid I might have frightened her while I was patching him up.”

“Thestrals?” Credence sounds breathless, and Newt remembers how he described healing magic feeling.

Well, Newt’s always happy to talk about his creatures. If it can give Credence a measure of… something, anything good, then that’s a secondary advantage.

To his surprise he falls asleep speaking, and doesn’t wake in the night. In the morning, Credence is gone again.

Thin fingers of upset creep into Newt’s mind. It’s harder to focus on his animals, harder to do anything, really. He doesn’t know what to _do_ with Credence. His Obscurus didn’t seem to be in some kind of urgent state, but what if it’s degenerative? Newt hadn’t wanted to push him too far too fast, but what if leaving the Obscurus alone too long could still kill him?

Even as Newt worries, the time between encounters shrinks. Credence seems to have forgotten that he needs to do things like knock on doors. He appears behind Newt, and Newt becomes used to turning to see a sullen boy disturbingly quickly.

“Can I see a thestral?”

“I don’t have any in my case,” Newt says. “But if you’d like, we could take a day trip to see some. There’s a herd not far from London, being monitored by the Ministry.”

Something hungry is in Credence’s eyes. Newt resists the urge to tell him that he looks half thestral, with the starveling body and the black clothing. Instead he gives Credence careful instructions, and hopes that things will go according to plan.

With hopes like that, maybe it’s no wonder that things do go wrong. Credence doesn’t show up to get on the train, and Newt is forced to go without him. He hopes that whatever strange draw carried Credence with him across an ocean can carry him a few more miles.

A few hours later and Newt’s hopes come true, for once. There’s a crunch of leaves behind him, a soft sound that barely causes the thestrals to shift where they stand. Newt’s hand stays steady over the journal, the piece of charcoal moving deftly.

“You’re an artist?” Credence peers over Newt’s shoulder, squinting at the sketch of a thestral snatching a bird off a tree branch. The gruesome scene doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.

“A bit,” Newt says. “It’s useful, when you’re attempting to document so many creatures.”

“Useful,” Credence repeats. He sits in the dirt beside Newt, and looks into the trees like he misses the drab greys of the city. Newt can’t imagine why. “Will those drawings be in your book?”

“I imagine not,” Newt says. He finishes the sketch and looks back up, just to watch the thestrals lounge about together. “I have plenty of others, and most people know about thestrals regardless.”

“Oh,” Credence follows Newt’s gaze. There’s a foal prancing around its mother, movements jerky and unearthly like all thestrals, and Credence quickly looks away again.

Like this, Newt can study Credence’s profile. There’s a barely visible stripe of scar peeking up from the collar of his shirt, and it makes Newt’s stomach vaguely queasy. His hair’s grown out a bit, but not nearly so much as it should have. Newt considers offering him a haircut.

Then his gaze catches on the inviting curve of Credence’s lips, and Newt finds he needs to distract himself rather abruptly. Well, he has charcoal in his hand and a journal open already. It doesn’t even occur to him that he should probably ask for permission before drawing Credence until he’s tracing the curve of an elegant jaw.

He’s embarrassed enough when Credence looks over and abruptly does a double take, but he doesn’t apologize. How can he, when Credence’s mouth falls just the slightest bit open, and he whispers like a winter draft turned into a sudden spring breeze. “You’ve made me beautiful.”

“No, I-- I just drew you, Credence.” Newt wants to be honest. He doesn’t know how to do it without baring more of himself than he’s comfortable with.

“You said…” Credence looks between the journal and his face, over and over, quick flicks of his eyes. He seems restless inside his own skin. “You said you don’t pretend. Even when you ought to.”

Swallowing hard, Newt says, “I did.”

Kissing Credence is unlike anything Newt’s ever felt. His hands were solid, _real_ when Newt had healed him, but his lips are different. There’s a subtle buzz, lightning about to strike the sea. Newt’s so shocked that Credence had made the first move that he almost doesn’t kiss back, but then he does, and the buzzing intensifies.

For the first time, Newt feels the warmth of Credence’s body sinking into him, and he doesn’t mind it at all. He wants more, and it’s downright frightening.

They break apart with a mutual gasp, and Newt realizes his hands have frozen on his journal. He looks into Credence’s eyes, wants to know what made him do that. Because it doesn’t look like courage, or love, or even lust, but when he opens his mouth and says “Credence--”

“Where did you get this scar?”

His ring finger is tingling much like his lips. He wonders at the way Credence is so strong, yet so fragile, like spiderweb. He’s steel cables that are ripped to shreds by the wind. He’s full of contradictions that Newt wants to learn inside and out.

“Ah, that was a manticore. Their tails are not to be underestimated.” Credence took Newt’s hand in both of his as he spoke, and the words shook towards the end.

The tremor seems to move from Newt’s voice into Credence’s body. “You’ve so many scars,” he says, and there’s an ancient ache there. He’s never been less a boy than now. “But you’re still beautiful. And you made me--”

Quickly, as if he doesn’t want to lose his nerve, as if he’s on the verge of saying something he’ll regret, Credence kisses Newt’s hand. Once, twice, again and again, fluttering things like the beats of newly-feathered wings. Newt’s heart stutters with them.

When Credence takes Newt’s ring finger into his mouth, it’s a storm suddenly unleashing. With a single, simple motion, Credence drives all the breath from his body. Newt’s left floating in the aftermath, a ship carelessly wrecked.

Inside his mouth it’s _hot._ Fever hot, actually, and Newt would worry but there’s no glaze in Credence’s eyes when he looks up through his eyelashes. His lips pucker soft and wet, his tongue presses gentleness into Newt’s finger. And then he sucks, and the world goes white at the edges.

It’s barely anything, but it feels like so much. Maybe it’s the raw magic like an untreated wound inside Credence. Maybe it’s the simple fact that it’s been so long. But Newt’s mind is already hazing over, fog that’s warm and inviting this time, and he needs to speak before he loses it entirely. “W-where did you learn this?”

All at once Credence is pulling away, his face twisted up as if he’s about to cry. It’s the first expression Newt ever remembers seeing on him. “Mr. Graves.”

And then he’s disentigrating, imploding like a thundercloud under pressure, a black mass Newt only sees because he’s looking for it and then _gone._

Waiting is becoming harder and Newt doesn’t want to admit why.

Days pass, and Newt notices little things. His tea goes cold before it should. Winter is over, but the grass outside is still frosting at night, crunching beneath his feet. Then he notices a bigger thing.

Blood. A dripping trail from his doorway to his bedroom, and Newt’s first thought is something absurd. Along the lines of, _did I let the nundu out?_ His second thought makes much more sense, and is much more chilling than cold tea. _Credence._

Sure enough, he finds the boy in his bedroom, a shirt Newt had given him now hanging shredded from his shoulders. Credence is sobbing, breathing in and in and in and never out. “It’s-- I can’t keep going, Mr. Scamander,” he says, without turning. Newt hasn’t made a sound. “I wish I could just disappear, but I _can’t._ ”

“Credence, are you losing control of the obscurus?” Newt’s voice is neutral. His knuckles are white.

A bitter laugh forces its way out of Credence’s throat, too high and hysterical. “It’s losing control of _me._ ” His face is tearstained and his nails are crusted in red when he looks up at Newt. “I c-can’t just go away anymore.”

“Can you breathe with me?” Newt asks. It’s not what he wants to ask. _Are you glad? Are you scared? Do you want to live with me? Do you know that you’re a marvel? Are you learning magic?_ But it’s the only question that helps. “Rest your hand on my chest, feel how I breathe.”

With another terrible, hiccuping laugh, Credence obeys. At first his hand rests on Newt’s chest as lightly as Newt had meant it to, but then his nails dig in, five bloody points that burn like brands. Newt breathes steady through it.

Once Credence is a tiny bit calmer, Newt asks more of him. More, but not much. “Can you take off your shirt?”

Ripping the fabric away casually, Credence stares at the floor. Newt winces to see the bloody welts Credence has raised across his collarbones and ribs. He’s given himself wings and gills. Newt is astoundingly relieved that he can’t use them to fly or swim away.

“Can I heal you?” A nod, and Newt is moving carefully, making sure that Credence can see him at all times. He runs his wand along the jagged lines slowly, thoroughly.

“Sometimes,” says Credence, and it’s hoarse and wrecked and Newt still, somehow, likes the sound better than the quiet. “Sometimes I think I should have died. I don’t-- I don’t want to. But I think maybe I was, maybe I was meant to be buried there. With Ma.”

It’s a confession Newt hasn’t the slightest idea what to do with. Before he can even begin to think of a response, Credence takes another shuddering breath and continues. “Sometimes I think I’m just what she made me. Like m-my bones are picked bare. Is that-- does that make me _wrong_ , Mr. Scamander?”

“No,” Newt says. He doesn’t know much about Credence, but he remembers his lips and knows this. “No, you’re not. You’re wonderful, Credence.”

Another shiver makes its way down Credence’s spine, with just that paltry praise. Newt wants to tell him more. Newt wants to compliment him until he cries completely different tears.

But then Credence curls his hands over his shoulders in a sharp movement, and makes a wounded sound. Newt worries he missed a scrape, but then he hears, “My scars.”

Smiling gently, Newt says, “I have more. You know that.”

“But…” Credence looks up at him, and _now_ he looks young. Newt isn’t sure what he means. He thinks, maybe, that one word is about the evenness of Credence’s scars. The silvery, ice-slick look of them, straight lines crossing straight lines. As if Newt’s are superior for being uneven.

Breath caught in his chest, Newt realizes what he has to do. He unbuttons his own shirt slowly, feels evil for being so glad that Credence is avoiding his gaze at the moment. Then he turns his back, and waits for the moment Credence looks up.

_”Oh.”_ A hand touches the small of his back, barely there, like the brush of a single snowflake.

Before he can even voice a question about the even striping, so similar to his own, Newt answers. It’s easy. He’s as proud of these scars as of the rest of them. “There was a fighting ring in Russia. They were rather reluctant to allow me to take their champions. This was their, ah, pound of flesh.”

“Why?” Credence sounds positively _in awe._ It’s not what Newt’s used to, and it warms his chest like a lantern light.

“I would do anything to keep innocent creatures safe. A bit of pain is a small price to pay.”

Hands rest on Newt’s shoulders, and they don’t shock him anymore. It’s relief and worry all at once. “Why did you-- why let them scar? All of them?”

“Some of them, I didn’t.” Newt touches the thestral bite and smiles, just slightly. “Magical creatures can inflict wounds that are remarkably difficult to heal. And some of them…”

Brushing his fingertips against Credence’s, where they still rest on his skin tentative and unassuming, Newt sighs. “With some of them, I had other things to worry about. I’m not often on the top of my own list of priorities.”

“You should be,” Credence whispers. He’s so close, he could lean forward and press against Newt, but he doesn’t. “I’m… I’m not an innocent creature, Mr. Scamander.”

“No.” And Newt leans back, takes the step Credence couldn’t. He’s rewarded with a sharp inhale, air brushing against the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re more than that, Credence.”

They’re words he’s never said before in his life, and might never say again. But they’re enough to have Credence slumping against him, tension leeching into the cold floorboards as his arms snake around Newt’s waist. For a while, they simply stand and breathe together.

When they go to bed this time it’s as different from the last as night is from day. Newt cards his fingers through Credence’s hair, cradles him close and tangles their legs together. He stays awake until his eyes feel gritty and his mouth tastes stale, and he can’t bring himself to say a single word. It’s like the moment is some fragile, spun-glass thing, and Newt doesn’t want to break it.

In the morning he fully expects to find Credence gone. It’s why he keeps his eyes closed so long, because there’s a weight on his chest that he doesn’t know how to trust. But then he feels that living warmth shift, take on an electric crackle, and his eyes open all on their own.

Disheveled hair greets him, black as the obscurus is in its purest form. There’s almost a haze hanging over Credence’s skin, something that looks grainy and dirty and smells like ozone and copper.

So Newt does what he does best; he calms the beast. Wraps his arms tight around Credence’s scarred shoulders and says, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

There’s wetness on Newt’s chest, under Credence’s cheek. It sizzles, and Newt hopes it’s tears, not blood again. “You’re doing well Credence,” he continues, knows that Credence can hear him when he feels the full-body flinch. “You _are._ You’ve been so strong. Please, just give me a few more minutes, love.”

_Love._ Credence gasps like a drowning man coming up for air, and then he’s surging forwards, taking Newt’s lips with his own. And oh, he _is_ crying, Newt can taste the salt, but it’s better than before.

Moving clumsily, sparing barely a thought for morning breath, Newt kisses back. Their tongues meet in a slick slide, their teeth clack together awkwardly. It’s hard at first, one of them inexperienced and the other out of practice, but then they find their rhythm. Newt captures Credence’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, and Credence _keens._

Faint sourness and heat linger on Newt’s tongue, heady as the feeling of rubbing his palms down Credence’s spine and feeling him arch. Newt spreads his thighs, allows Credence to settle between them. Despite Credence being over him, Newt doesn’t feel as though he’s looming. It’s more like Credence is covering Newt, keeping him safe and hidden.

Their bodies move in a slow roll, and with the way Newt can feel Credence shaking under his gentle touches it won’t be long before they’re both so hard it aches. Credence breaks the kiss before that happens, though, and slinks his way down Newt’s body with shocking ease.

“Can you,” Credence swallows hard, and Newt can’t look away from the bob of his adam’s apple, so close to his cock. “Can you use me, Mr. Scamander?”

“Call me Newt,” he says breathlessly. It’s all he can say, with a request like that, but his hands go down to grip Credence’s hair firmly and he hopes it’s enough of an answer.

“Newt,” Credence whispers. Then he’s tugging down Newt’s pants, and licking his lips at the sight of his dick. He doesn’t waste any more time, dives into it with the same enthusiasm he’d shown their kiss.

Inside, Credence is _searing._ Newt can’t help that his hands clench down, and he almost lets go before he feels Credence’s moan shake him to his core. _Oh,_ if Credence wants Newt to _use_ him, the least he can do is try.

Slowly rocking his hips, using his grip to hold Credence’s head in place, Newt pants, “You’re so lovely, like this.” Credence jerks at his words, his face screwed up, but he sucks harder. It’s different from anything Newt has felt before-- he’s used to gentle, slow encounters. Not this strange power exchange, heady and thick in his veins.

However, even Newt’s version of roughness doesn’t seem to be enough for Credence. His neck strains, tries to press down further when Newt thrusts into him. “Hush, darling,” Newt coos. “Let me, please, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Whining high in his throat, Credence subsides. His hands grip Newt’s thighs tightly, kneading a bit as if he’s a large cat. And Newt finds himself talking again, even though he doesn’t usually talk during sex. Each of Credence’s reactions is just too sweet to give up, and he finds that the words come easier the more he says.

“So good for me. You’re, oh, you’re trying so hard, goodness. Y-you’re, the way you use your tongue is, _hnn, divine._ ”

Each bit of praise had Credence’s hips twitching, though he never reaches down to touch himself. He simply focuses on keeping his plush lips covering his teeth, on swallowing around Newt’s length and pressing his tongue against the frenulum. He really was being a _good boy._

Thoughts like that cause Newt’s control to slip, and Credence finally gets what he’d wanted. Gagging, he manages to take Newt to the root. His nose is buried in red curls, his eyes are tearing up, his breath huffs labored against Newt’s skin. But he looks-- he looks so--

“Credence,” Newt says. It’s all he can say.

If he was entirely in his right mind, Newt might feel guilty for holding Credence’s head on his cock while he comes down his throat. But the silken heat around him is addictive, and Newt’s half convinced that this is a dream. Some beautiful, forbidden dream.

Then Credence pulls off, rests his forehead on Newt’s hip and pants desperately, and it’s entirely too real. Which is to say, exactly as real as Newt hadn’t dared to hope for. The haze over Credence’s skin is long gone, and it makes Newt smile when he says, “Do you want me to take care of you?”

_”Yes,”_ Credence looks up at Newt with bloodshot eyes, his voice utterly ruined. Newt thinks, _I did that._

But when Newt guides him back up gently, he finds Credence is soft in his pants. Newt’s frightened for a split second that Credence hated the whole thing, but then he feels the wetness, spreading warmth, and realizes. “Oh, my love, you’re a _marvel.”_

At this point it feels almost natural, almost familiar, to have Credence shivering in his arms after murmured praise. Animals sometimes need gentle tones and soothing voices, but Newt’s never tried it on a human before. He finds he wants to know what he can do to Credence with praise alone. That’s emphatically not for him to find out, this morning.

“Stay,” he says, right before he kisses Credence. And then again, lips brushing together as they move. “Stay.”

And Credence does. His hands find Newt’s, and their fingers fit together perfectly. This time, neither asks any questions. They catch their breath, Credence humming occasionally as if he simply wants the tactile reminder of what they’ve done. It feels like home.

Outside, the flowers thaw.

**Author's Note:**

> Holy… fucking… shit this was supposed to be super short what happened??? I mean I’m not complaining and I hope you aren’t either, but wow. Thanks Credence and Newt for dragging me headfirst into an angst party. Honestly this might end up with an entire other scene edited in at a later date if anyone has interest
> 
> If you liked this fic please check out my [blog!!!](http://twitchtipthegnawer.tumblr.com/) It’s got all kinds of writing updates and stuff on it. Please don’t hesitate to talk to me also, about basically anything, I could always use more friends!!


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